


I Put a Spell on You

by bethaboo



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: BBC, Basically everyone is a reporter, Bottom Louis, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Matchmaker Niall, Reporter Louis, Santa hats, Secret Santa, reporter harry, ridiculous fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 22:31:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3357647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethaboo/pseuds/bethaboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A BBC/Secret Santa mashup featuring Captain Niall, our intrepid weatherman/amateur matchmaker, rather clueless sports reporter Liam, charming political analyst Zayn, and cheeky entertainment reporter Louis. Harry is the new fashion correspondent who prefers to dress like a flamingo. And pining. There’s a lot of pining.</p><p>Apologies all around to those of you who enjoy coherent plots, something other than fluffy smut, and Starbucks coffee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Put a Spell on You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [habibilouis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/habibilouis/gifts).



> I was really excited to be able to pinch hit for the HL Winter Exchange. My prompt was:
> 
> AU where all the boys work at the BBC house. Louis is the pretty hard-to-get boy, who does the entertainment section and keeps getting hit on by Nick Grimshaw, the cocky radio host who doesn't seem to give up or 'fuck off'. Zayn is Louis' best mate, but also the devastatingly handsome political analyst who is hopelessly in love with Liam, the clueless sports guy. Harry is the 'new kid' in the BBC house who does the Fashion section and is all quirky and keeps wearing shirts with ridiculous patterns and ridiculously tight jeans. He has an obvious crush on Louis and isn't all that good at hiding it (not that he even tries), Niall is the matchmaking weather boy.
> 
> I think I kept pretty close to the prompt, though I threw in Secret Santa because it amused me and I couldn't find a way to work in Christmas into my other HL Winter Exchange story and fuck, I love Christmas.
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful betas, B & P. You guys rock. 
> 
> I should also apologize to Nick Grimshaw, because I know next to nothing about him, but certainly he is not the presumptuous ass that I make him in this story.

Louis is drunk.

 

Drunk on green eyes and wide shoulders and abs and tattoos and these insanely deep dimples and a ridiculous head of curly hair that has to be seen to be believed.

 

He hadn’t even believed his own eyes when a deep voice next to him at the bar had offered to buy him a drink and then Louis had turned around and seen, well, so fucking much. Too fucking much, if Louis had anything to say about it.

 

Niall had dragged him out to the pub because he claimed he was becoming annoyingly stodgy. Sue him. His job as an entertainment reporter at the BBC meant he worked his butt off—to the point of learning to go to bed early and getting up even earlier because damnit, Louis wasn’t about to let his adoring public see him anything other than well-rested and flawless. His tablet was a more frequent companion in his bed these days than hot men. Niall had pointed all this out, going on and on about how pathetic Louis had gotten in his (old) age, so he’d finally cut off all of Niall’s whining and agreed to a lads night.

 

He’d gone, expecting to drink a few pints, have a decent laugh and finish off an exciting Friday night with what might have been a very nice wank.

 

Then he’d come face to face with Harry, and well, Louis had determined right then that any orgasms he’d be having tonight wouldn’t be of the solitary variety.

 

One hour, two beers, and about a hundred obnoxious texts from Niall later, Louis is straddling Harry in a cab, and they’re probably about three hot, wet kisses away from getting kicked to the curb.

 

But Louis’ can’t seem to help himself. Normally he knows he’s pretty self-contained, maybe even a bit aloof. But a few shy, hot, endlessly admiring glances from Harry’s beautiful eyes and he’s literally carelessly and wantonly grinding on his dick.

 

It would be embarrassing, except it’s so damn hot that Louis feels like he might just come in his pants before they even get to the good part.

 

And he definitely wants to get to the good part. If there’s ever been a guy worth getting to the good part for, it’s Harry.

 

“So gorgeous,” Harry pants into Louis’ mouth, lips slack and plush against his. And Louis believes him because even though he’s had plenty of sex in his life—even plenty of _great_ sex—he doesn’t think that anybody has ever touched him with so much raw, unabashed desire before, hands and lips roaming everywhere they can touch, leaving trails of sparks in their wake.

 

Basically, Louis doesn’t think he’s ever been this turned on _ever_. Even when he was a desperate, horny sixteen year old.

 

He’s just about to beg Harry to get a hand in his pants and give him some kind of relief when the cab _finally_ stops, and they’re stumbling out, looking like they’ve had a lot more to drink than they actually have. Louis has always hated people who throw their money around but he literally just digs into his wallet and doesn’t even look at the bills as he tosses them at the driver. It could be way less than he’s owed—it could definitely be a lot more. And he just doesn’t care because Harry is grabbing his hand and his waist and then the curve of his bum with his gigantic hands with their long, shapely fingers and if Louis doesn’t get those fingers inside of him in the next five minutes, there is something wrong with the universe.

 

They practically fall through Harry’s front door, attached at the mouth and about a hundred other places—pressed hip to thigh to stomach to chest—and Louis feels like he’s flying.

 

Okay, he’s not exactly _flying_ but he’s definitely airborne because Harry’s lifting him like he weighs practically nothing (and that alone would be insanely flattering, but there’s also the nearly obscene flex of Harry’s biceps and that is also extremely flattering because _this is the boy that Louis managed to pull for the night_ ). Basically, if Niall ever says another word about Louis being stodgy and boring, Louis going to have a whole slideshow of X-rated images that will definitely prove he’s not.

 

Harry pushes him up against the wall and Louis wastes no time at all in wrapping his legs around his waist. His hard dick lines right up with Harry’s and Louis isn’t even ashamed that he whimpers right into Harry’s mouth.

 

“Sex, bed, _sex_ ,” Louis finds himself chanting as Harry holds him up like he’s a feather and proceeds to suck a whole necklace of love bites across his collarbones.

 

“Sex _yes_ ,” Harry groans into Louis’ skin and there’s a frisson of electricity shooting up Louis’ spine at the low growl that Harry’s voice has become.

 

As if Harry wasn’t already one of the sexiest men in the universe, then he has to go and pull out an extremely effective sex voice. It wouldn’t be fair, but then Louis is here with him, about to enjoy everything he has to offer.

 

Louis decides it’s just fair enough.

 

Harry pulls him from the wall and Louis actually _is_ flying now. He’s too busy leaving a matching love bite on the side of Harry’s neck so he misses most of the trip to the bedroom, but then Harry deposits him so carefully, so _gently_ , on a bed that feels like a cloud.

 

It would be so easy to just lay back and let Harry take everything he wants, which is nearly what Louis wants too—but then he glances up at Harry, framed in the dim light from the hall, and he’s so beautiful and he looks so kind too, like the best possible combination of all the things that Louis values in a man and suddenly he wants to give just as good as he gets.

 

Okay, so he’s not the most selfless person on the planet, but it’s not exactly selfless to scramble to the floor either and sink to his knees in front of Harry.

 

I mean, he’s _felt_ the monster Harry’s hiding in those tight jeans. It’s only fair he get to taste it.

 

“Wanna blow you,” Louis murmurs and the air in the bedroom feels like it thickens and heats.

 

Time feels like it’s crawling as Harry nods slowly, tipping his head back, chewing on his exquisitely plump bottom lip. Louis makes quick work of his belt and yanks his trousers down, followed by his pants, leaving Louis a bit speechless.

 

Harry is _gorgeous_. His dick is so thick and long and pretty and Louis isn’t what he’d call a size queen but he’s practically breathless from the anticipation of what that cock is going to feel like in his mouth and his arse. He’s definitely going to feel it the next morning and Louis _loves_ that.

 

Louis leans forward and slips the head into his mouth, tonguing at Harry’s slit, moaning a little at how sweet and nice Harry tastes. Almost _fruity_. Louis is almost a tiny bit sad that Harry will be coming in his arse instead of his mouth. _Almost_.

 

Harry’s legs start to tremble, and Louis refocuses, running his tongue up the thick vein on the underside of his dick, sinking down a little lower, loving the stretch of his lips around it.

 

Harry must love it too because he moans loudly and that’s just even better. Because Louis _loves_ hearing what he does to men and Harry is just so damn responsive, it might make Louis cry—it’s definitely going to make Louis come.

 

His dick nudges at the base of Louis’ throat and he considers trying to sink down further, tears stinging at the edges of his eyes, until Harry’s hands settle on his shoulders and they’re actually shaking.

 

“Lou, Lou,” Harry begs lowly, his voice as gravelly as if he’s been the one sucking dick, “gotta stop. Gonna come. Wanna come in you.”

 

This is a plan that Louis can definitely get behind. He pulls off, gives the head of Harry’s cock one last reluctant lick, then Harry’s yanking him up, mashing their lips together as his big hands divest Louis of his clothes.

 

Harry pushes Louis back onto the bed, and Louis is so lightheaded from arousal, he can barely focus as Harry joins him, hands smoothing over his thighs, his legs, shifting higher and beginning to circle his hole with a wet finger.

 

Louis would be embarrassed at the high-pitched keen he gives when Harry finally sinks a finger in, but he’s way past being embarrassed and it feels just about as amazing as he thought it might.

 

Harry takes his time with the prep, no matter how vocally and insistently Louis begs, even as he moves from pleas to threats back to pleas. When Harry finally pulls three fingers out and reaches for the condom, Louis feels like his control is hanging by a thread. He’s only come untouched a handful of times in his life, but the way the arousal is burning hot and heavy in his belly, twisting tight as Harry nudges his wet hole with the head of his dick, Louis thinks it could possibly happen.

 

It could possibly even happen _twice_.

 

And god knows, Louis is a realist and this isn’t a fucking porno, but somehow it’s begun to feel like that and more and Louis doesn’t even know how that happened.

 

Harry goes slow and careful, clearly aware of his size, and Louis is a bit thankful for that, because while he _does_ like to feel it in the morning, he’d also like to be able to walk.

 

He can’t help but let out a loud groan as Harry finally sinks in all the way and stills. “Is it okay?” Harry asks softly, desperately. “God, you feel _amazing_.”

 

“Feels good,” Louis moans in response. I mean, like he’s _full up_ of cock, but that’s fucking good. And Harry is fucking good, his dick pressing practically right against his prostate and he’s barely even moved.

 

Then he does move and it gets impossibly, amazingly, even better. Harry pulls Louis’ legs tight against his chest and his thrusts are long, dirty grinds that seem designed so that Louis can’t miss a single inch of his cock.

 

He also happens to be grinding pretty relentlessly against Louis’ prostate, hitting it so regularly that Louis can’t even quite believe that they’ve never had sex before.

 

What even was sex before Harry? Louis isn’t sure. But he’s pretty sure he’s going to come soon, the coil of pleasure tightening in his abs, and when Harry gives him an especially hard thrust, dragging Louis’s body even closer in, Louis shrieks and squeezes tight around Harry, creaming right up his belly.

 

“Oh god, oh god,” Harry moans, and Louis wonders for a split second if he’ll stop and almost begs him not to but apparently even though they don’t know each other at all, he’s on the same page because his pace quickens.

 

He’s sensitive and almost sore but there’s still pleasure spiking through it, and Louis finds himself hard only like ten or so strokes later and Harry groans again when he realizes it, thrusting his hands under Louis’ ass as he pistons in and out. Louis knows he’s a sobbing, horrible mess now, but all he can focus on is Harry’s gruff chant of “come again, god, please, come on my cock again,” and Louis isn’t sure he can, but the words are seeming to turn what would normally be an impossibility into a reality.

 

Harry gives one last desperate thrust and he’s coming, hips stuttering, his face frozen in pleasure, and that’s all it takes for Louis to follow again, clenching hard around his dick.

 

They lay there in a sweaty heap for about twenty minutes. Harry pulls out gently and Louis wonders if that’s his signal to leave. I mean, this _is_ what it looks like, right?

 

It’s just, well, Louis is feeling a bit hollowed out from his two orgasms—sensitive and a bit emotional—and he wants a cuddle.

 

So he just wraps his arms around Harry and hopes it’s okay, even though he’s probably getting come all over the other boy.

 

It must be okay, because Harry relaxes right into the embrace and Louis nuzzles right into the soft, sweet-smelling hair falling against his neck.

 

“Stay,” Harry mumbles then, and Louis is so boneless and relaxed he almost misses it. And he does want to, a little. He also wants his own bed and his own things and to take his contacts out and not have to get up ridiculously early and make the walk of shame back to his own flat.

 

Basically Louis is not only a creature of habit, he’s also a massive chicken shit, because this was supposed to be a one night stand, a quick (okay maybe not so quick) shag and he’s gotten it, and he doesn’t know what to do if that’s not what this is.

 

So he carefully and deliberately pulls away a little from Harry. “I actually. . .” he hesitates and that alone is a deciding factor. It’s not like he’s _against_ relationships, it’s more like this is way more than he was expecting and he doesn’t deal well with surprises. Harry is definitely a surprise.

 

“Actually,” he continues, a bit more sure now, “I should really be going.”

 

Louis thinks maybe he misinterprets the way Harry’s fingers tremble against Louis’ skin, but that doesn’t mean the feeling won’t haunt him the whole way home.

 

\--

 

Monday morning, Louis walks into BBC headquarters and he’s definitely still swaggering a little, mostly because he can still almost feel the ghost of Harry’s cock in his arse and it’s a _great_ feeling.

 

He’s also trying to focus on that because if he lets himself think too much, he’ll regret leaving and not getting Harry’s number.

 

 _Just because it was such good sex_ , Louis insists to himself. _That’s all_.

 

He’s sitting in Lou Teasdale’s makeup chair, getting his face done for the afternoon broadcast when his best mate Zayn shows up, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest.

 

“I hate you,” Louis whines petulantly as he glances up at his friend. “Why are you so gorgeous? You don’t even have to _do_ all this.” He waves his hand around vaguely as Lou carefully teases his hair up into his trademark quiff.

 

“I still have to do him,” Lou laughs softly. “And the other day, he actually had like, a pimple.”

 

This is some of the best news Louis has heard in a long time. “The great Zayn Malik with a pimple!” Louis crows and Zayn just shakes his head, clearly amused.

 

The saddest part of all of this is that Zayn’s one of the BBC’s political reporters. Nobody really gives a crap what he looks like, even though in an alternate universe, he’d probably be one of those bloody gorgeous Gucci models or maybe even one of a few fit lads in a boy band. But as it is, Zayn prefers to keep his focus on the ephemeral and not the physical.

 

Personally, Louis thinks it’s a waste, but then nobody asked his opinion—and maybe that’s the real crime here.

 

“Guess what I just heard?” Zayn asks.

 

“What?” Louis could definitely go for some office gossip as a distraction from the one night stand he hasn’t quite been able to forget.

 

 _That’s normal_ , Louis has to remind himself, _it was some of the best sex you’ve ever had._

“They finally hired a new fashion reporter,” Zayn says and Louis lets out a wounded gasp.

 

“Without even consulting me?”  This has not been the greatest start to a Monday ever. Louis, as the main entertainment reporter, often has to collaborate with fashion. The last fashion reporter was a rather cold, broody girl named Sarah that Louis hadn’t had a shred of chemistry with. Also, she’d kept losing weight, making Louis feel annoyingly thick around the thighs and bum.

 

 _Harry liked your bum_ , a bothersome little voice reminds Louis.

 

He shakes off the distraction and focuses on what really matters. His new co-worker.

 

“So?” Louis demands. “Who is she?”

 

Zayn smiles. “Not a she, to start.”

 

“Oh.” Louis is a bit taken aback by this. It does make the most sense—after all, Louis is never going to have any kind of working chemistry with a woman, but he wasn’t sure management was smart enough to ever try something else.

 

“His name’s Harry Styles,” Zayn says and everything in Louis freezes.

 

“Wait,” Louis hedges. “Is he like, um, really tall and broad and has long, curly hair. You know. Green eyes. Gorgeous face?”

 

Zayn frowns. “I thought you hadn’t met him.”

 

Louis buries his face in his hands, causing Lou to shriek that Louis has just ruined a good half an hour of work.

 

He doesn’t care. His whole life is shit.

 

Correction: his whole life is _over_.

 

“I met him at the pub on Friday. You know, when I went with Niall.” Louis glares over at Zayn. “When you were busy trying to get into Liam’s pants _again_.”

 

“That’s good though,” Zayn says smoothly, moving right past the part about Liam. Louis rolls his eyes. “You already know each other.”

 

“ _Not good_ ,” Louis hisses. “I shagged the shit out of him. And then _left_.”

 

Louis has only seen smart, composed, way-too-educated Zayn speechless a few times in his life. The first time was when Liam Payne, the new sports reporter, started at the BBC. This is the second time.

 

Basically, Louis is screwed.

 

He doesn’t even need Zayn to tell him the truth. He already knows it.

 

And unfortunately, this time it’s not even in the literal sense.

 

\--

 

Louis meets Harry for the second time later that day.

 

It’s really awkward. Not that Louis wasn’t expecting it to be—he definitely was—but the level of awkwardness surpasses even his own expectation.

 

Harry is standing with Simon, his boss’ boss and somehow he must have realized who Louis was because he doesn’t look even the slightest bit surprised when they’re introduced.

 

Louis keeps the handshake to a very, very brief touch. The way Harry’s hand just _covers_ his sends a very unwelcome frisson of _something_ up his spine. Louis plasters his most disaffected and aloof expression on his face and basically dares Harry to say a word about how they’ve met before.

 

He doesn’t.

 

“Harry, nice to meet you.”

 

Harry mumbles something similar and they’re just eyeing each other—Louis with trepidation and Harry with something that Louis might think resembles romantic interest but he’s just too busy freaking to figure it out.

 

It turns out that Harry’s just about as sweet and kind as Louis suspected on Friday and that just fucks up Louis more. He wants him to get angry. He wants him to be bitter and resentful and _mad_ that Louis just fucked off that night and now they’re going to be working together and Louis looks like he could give a shit.

 

Louis lasts about two minutes of small talk. He just doesn’t have the balls. Which, that should worry him right there.

 

He spends the rest of the afternoon alternating between prepping for the week’s stories and melting down over Harry. It’s not one of Louis’ more stellar moments.

 

Then Grimshaw shows up and his afternoon goes all to hell.

 

Nick Grimshaw is one of the BBC Radio announcers, which means he doesn’t really have any business over on the television side. Does that stop him? Of course not.

 

He’s here for one reason and one reason only: Louis.

 

Nick’s had this extremely unfortunate crush on Louis for awhile now and even after two solid years of rejections, cold shoulders and at points, downright vicious comments about his fashion choices, donkey laugh and swarmy attitude, he still somehow believes he’s got a chance with Louis.

 

Louis really wishes he would take a hint.

 

Of course, on some of Louis’ better days, it’s nice to have the attention—at least for the first little bit. But Louis just doesn’t have _any_ patience for Grimshaw’s shit today.

 

“Louis, looking gorgeous as always today,” he says, leaning up against Louis’ desk, crowding far too much into his personal space, temporarily overwhelming Louis with how much terrible cologne he’s soaked himself with.

 

Louis scrunches his nose and wishes he was in the habit of carrying around a handkerchief so he could cover his nose right now. But that’s a level of affectation that even Louis has never stooped to, so he’s out of luck.

 

“What do you want?” Louis asks testily.

 

“Be a sweet boy and go out with me this week, darling. I’ve got tickets to . . .”

 

Louis doesn’t even give him the benefit of getting out what the super exclusive date of the week is. He just cuts him off, sharp and sweet. “No.”

 

“Sweetheart, don’t be rude.” Louis absolutely abhors how patronizing he is. Why can’t Nick see he’s not even in the mood to banter? Why can’t he just leave him the fuck alone so he can freak out about Harry in peace?

 

“I’m not your sweetheart,” is all he bites out.

 

“Who’s not?” Louis looks up and feels nauseous. Harry is standing there, and he’s clearly greatly amused, one hand on a cocked hip, looking a bit like a spindly parrot in a pair of tight, _tight_ black jeans topped with a loosely buttoned shirt patterned in _flamingoes_.

 

Louis utters a silent prayer. Harry Styles expects him to go on-air with him in a shirt that’s covered in flamingoes.

 

It’s really testament to how annoyed he is with Nick that he’s actually a tiny bit pleased that Harry is here as a distraction. Maybe he can get Nick to fuck off.

 

“Hello, I’m Harry,” he says to Nick, sticking his hand out. “And you are?”

 

“Grimshaw,” Nick says shortly, clearly not pleased to have his weekly flirt session with Louis so rudely interrupted. “Nick. BBC Radio.”

 

“Ah. Lovely. Well, I’m the new fashion correspondent, and I need to talk to Louis here, if you wouldn’t mind?”

 

Harry is amazing. Harry is wonderful. Louis is in love with how sweetly and neatly Harry coaxes Nick right out of the office.

 

But then Harry is back and he’s exactly where Grimshaw was and Louis is suspicious right away because he does _not_ hate it as much as he hated Nick there.

 

In fact, he doesn’t really hate it at all.

 

This is a problem.

 

“So,” Harry starts out slowly and Louis wants to stop him right there. He’s actually _terrified_ of what Harry will say. The shame that’s been burning low in his belly since Friday night unfurls and he can’t bear to hear Harry say anything about his horrible behavior.

 

He should tell Harry that he wanted to stay, that he _should_ have stayed. That they’d had fun and he’d liked him (probably way more than he should) and that at the very least, they could have slept all cuddly and warm and then woke up and had another great shag before he went on his way. That maybe he could have gotten his phone number. And they could have done it again. And again. And then maybe Louis might have let Harry take him out for dinner before the shagging bit.

 

Louis thought he grew out of doing what he _shouldn’t_ do a long time ago. It turns out that’s not necessarily true.

 

“I don’t date co-workers,” is what he blurts out instead, stopping Harry right in his tracks. Harry’s wide green eyes grow even wider and he looks a bit shell-shocked, which naturally makes Louis feel like a Grade A knob. Harry hadn’t even said he _wanted_ to date Louis.

 

“Okay,” Harry says softly. “But yeah . . .”

 

Louis doesn’t let him finish again. It’s not his fault, okay? For the hour they were still only _talking_ , he’d been charmed by the slow syrupy way Harry talks, but now there’s too much time between words and all that time means that Louis can think and then _overthink_. And he’s overthinking in a big way right now.

 

“Just wanted to get that out of the way,” Louis insists brightly, as if nothing is wrong. “Make sure there’s no confusion.”

 

“So you’re not dating that guy?” Harry motions to the doorway, to where he just ushered Grimshaw out a few minutes before, and Louis just shakes his head emphatically.

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

Harry’s expressive face settles into a contented smile. It would be so lovely except that someone as beautiful as Harry shouldn’t be _content_ at the thought of not dating Louis. Louis panics a little, but he’s said it now. He can’t really take it back. It doesn’t matter that he’s used it for years as his excuse for turning Grimshaw down flat—he _could_ have made an exception for Harry. Besides, Louis has always lived his life with every intention of making as many exceptions as he can.

 

Louis really needs to work on his game.

 

“I actually came here because I wanted to ask you a few questions about my segment tomorrow?” Harry gives Louis a shy smile and Louis wants to not be hopelessly endeared, but it’s a little late for that.

 

It’s also a little late to forget how amazing Harry’s cock felt.

 

Louis tries to shake his head right out of the gutter but he can’t quite get it there. It doesn’t help that the last time they were this close, they were having some pretty fucking fantastic sex.

 

Of course, once he goes down that path, that’s all he can really think about and Louis is fairly certain he does a horrible job answering Harry’s questions, though he’s unfailingly kind and nice about Louis’ stupid garbage answers.

 

By the time Harry finally (and it seems reluctantly) takes his leave, Louis is a mess. The only thing to do, it seems, is convene the Council for a discussion of the problem at hand.

 

After a few frantic phone calls, Niall, Zayn, Liam and Louis gather after work at the pub across the street from the BBC offices.

 

Louis only sits down after he prowls around the room, making sure that Harry isn’t tucked away somewhere and positions himself in the booth so he can clearly see the front door.

 

Zayn shakes his head and he’s laughing again. Louis does not appreciate it. “I can’t exactly ask for advice if he’s _here_ , listening in, can I?” Louis hisses at his three best friends. “I mean, I _did_ run into him in another pub close to the office just last Friday.”

 

“Is that the problem then?” Niall asks, a bit too innocently because he definitely knows what’s wrong with Louis and fuck, if he’s not enjoying all this a bit more than he should. “Regretting using young Harold as your sexual plaything?”

 

“His name isn’t Harold,” Louis groans out. “And _no_ , well, _yes_. I guess. A little.”

 

Liam, who’s often the quietest, especially when they’re out, surprises Louis by speaking up. He’s only recently been added to their regular group, maybe in the last six months, and it’s only because Zayn is so head over heels for him.

 

Unfortunately for Zayn, Liam is proving to be a bit tougher of a nut to crack than everyone anticipated. This _is_ Zayn, after all, and Louis is rather enjoying watching him work a bit more for it than he usually has to—at least until his own romantic troubles surfaced and suddenly he’s feeling quite a bit more sympathetic.

 

“So you regret _something,_ but not Friday night?” Liam asks astutely. Way too astutely, in Louis’ opinion.

 

“I mean,” Louis blushes, and he can’t even believe he’s _blushing_ about sex, “Friday night was really great. I just wish I hadn’t fucked it up by not staying and not even asking for Harry’s phone number. And continuing to fuck it up by telling him today that I don’t date co-workers.”

 

Zayn gapes at him. “You said _what_?”

 

“I mean,” Louis continues, “in my defense, Grimshaw was all up in my business. And then Harry just shows up and he’s all suave and cute and amused.”

 

“So, let me get this straight. Harry shows up to save you from Grimmy. You’re hopelessly attracted to him. So you announce to him that you can’t date him.” Niall is giggling so much he can barely get this out.

 

Louis is not amused. He crosses his arms over his chest and glares.

 

“Oh babe, you’re fine. Just ask him out.” Zayn, of course, has not taken this particular route with Liam. They’re six months in and he’s still stuck on besotted glances. Louis is about five seconds away from pointing this particular fact out, but then Niall interrupts him.

 

“What did he even say when you told him?” Niall asks.

 

Louis can’t help but flush in remembered and extremely acute embarrassment. “Something about how that must mean I wasn’t dating Nick. Which. . . _gross_.”

 

“He didn’t seem upset?” Liam sounds confused.

 

“Yes. No. I don’t know. It was a definite word vomit occasion and I was so unglued after it happened I barely remember what we talked about after. It was definitely work related. So he clearly moved on pretty quick.”

 

“Maybe, maybe not.” Niall’s expression is contemplative, which is more terrifying than anything else. Niall thinking is almost _never_ a good thing.

 

“Well, unless I ask him and I’m absolutely _not_ going to, there’s no point in continuing this conversation,” Louis announces recklessly. “Let’s just get drunk.”

 

\---

 

In retrospect, getting drunk was not one of Louis’ more brilliant ideas.

 

The next day is hell-on-wheels. He spends the majority of his time when he isn’t actually required to be filming head-down on his desk, miserable and sick.

 

The hangover would have been enough, but that stupid guilt is back in spades.

 

Why the _fuck_ had he said that to Harry? What had he been thinking?

 

By the end of the day, Louis is pretty certain that he’d said the Horrible Awful Thing because he’d been only thinking of his carefully-constructed, always-so-safe life. His hospital corners life.

 

It just so happens that Louis wants Harry way more than he wants to be safe, which is a pretty shit thing to realize about twenty four hours too late.

 

Niall drops by Louis’ desk just before five.

 

“Not now,” Louis groans from his position cheek-down on the shiny white veneer of his desk. “You did plenty of damage last night.”

 

Niall has the utter nerve to laugh. “That was mostly you, mate.”

 

This is probably too true, but Louis isn’t quite masochistic enough to admit it to himself.

 

“Anyway, I’m in charge of the office Secret Santa,” Niall explains, thrusting a small cardboard box towards him. “You’ve gotta pick your person.”

 

Louis groans. “For the love of _God_.”

 

“It’s Christmas. Just because you’re lonely and miserable and well, _really_ fucking alone, doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t have a bit of cheer.”

 

“Thank you, Nialler, for pointing out so many bloody times how alone I am,” Louis snaps.

 

Niall shrugs rather unrepentantly. “Just the truth.” He pushes the box towards Louis insistently. “Now pick your name.”

 

Louis groans again, but sticks his hand in the box, riffling around before selecting a piece of paper.

 

He takes one glance and grimaces. “Really? _Her_?” Eleanor is a nice enough girl, he supposes. She works in the fashion division, but they’ve never got friendly. And now he has to buy her a whole load of thoughtful Christmas gifts. He hates Secret Santa.

 

Niall yelps. “You’re not supposed to tell me! Supposed to be a Secret. Like you know, it _says._ Secret Santa and all.”

 

“Yes, I know.” Louis can’t help but roll his eyes one last time. “Thank you _so_ much, Nialler.”

 

\----

 

Louis gets his first Secret Santa gift two days later.

 

When he walks into his office, it’s just sitting there, innocently, on his desk—an artistically and beautifully arranged wicker basket that makes Louis smile probably more than he deserves when he digs into it.

 

There’s two mugs, one emblazoned with his favorite Tina Fey quote—“Bitches get stuff done”—and the other with what could definitely be another classic Tommo saying, “Oh hell no.” There’s about a six month supply of Yorkshire buried in the bottom of the basket, and a very nice mug warmer tucked in the side. And most importantly, there’s a card.

 

The paper is creamy and heavy, definitely expensive, and Louis feels a slight pulse of guilt because he hasn’t given one single thought to what he’ll be getting Eleanor since he picked her name and here his Secret Santa is not only out there spending some money, they’re being disgustingly thoughtful.

 

He opens the envelope and two cards fall out—one is a six-month membership to a “tea of the month” club, which makes him giggle then roll his eyes. The other card matches the envelope and it very simply says, “For whenever you get sick of Yorkshire.”

 

Louis laughs then and though it should make him feel guilty because he’s been so thoughtless with his own Secret Santa gifts, the gift warms his heart and his hands and his insides all through the day. He proudly displays the mugs and even uses the “Oh hell no” one throughout his broadcast. He hopes whoever clearly spent so much time picking out the perfect present for him sees it and appreciates how much Louis is enjoying his gifts.

 

When he packs up for the night, Louis orders himself to go to the Starbucks next door and find something appropriate for Eleanor.

 

Normally, he wouldn’t ever darken their door—the heavy smell of roasting coffee beans is both way too strong and way too disgusting for Louis to deal with—but he’s seen Eleanor with their distinctive white and green cup far too many times.

 

After all, this isn’t supposed to be about him.

 

Browsing the shelves lining one side of the store, his nose wrinkling in disgust, Louis realizes that his problem is that he’s just not that selfless.

 

What he wants to do is donate his “tea of the month” subscription to Eleanor and hope that she can better her taste in hot beverages. After all, after that cheeky note, he’s fairly certain that this particular gift was more of a throwaway than anything else. Anyone who knows him well enough to know his taste in mugs and tea and bitchy Tina Fey sayings would definitely know that he’d never get sick of Yorkshire.

 

He feels like the subscription and the note are the sender’s way of pointing that out, maybe a bit subtly. Louis loves it; he kind of can’t wait to get his next gift.

 

But for now, he definitely needs to figure out something for Eleanor.

 

He’s examining a rather fancy travel tumbler, and trying to decide if it would work for tea as well as coffee when he hears a soft voice mumble, “Hello Louis,” from behind his right shoulder.

 

He turns and Harry’s standing there, wrapped in some gorgeous navy blue peacoat and draped with a lovely pink and blue scarf. He looks like a model but his smile is far too sweet and kind. Louis wants to drag him into the loo and shag him ten ways from Sunday.

 

Unfortunately for Louis (and probably for Harry, if he could only realize it), he’s probably blown his chances to do that. But maybe they can be friends.

 

Louis would be okay with that. Friends don’t typically give blowjobs, but he can be flexible.

 

“Harry, darling. I didn’t know you had such execrable taste in liquid refreshment,” Louis says with what he hopes is a cheeky, casual grin that doesn’t betray all the stupid, distracting emotions that are boiling away inside of him.

 

Harry grins back and for the first time since Louis fucked up Friday night, everything feels calm and right between them. “Hot chocolate,” he offers, holding up a cup. “Don’t really like coffee, actually. But you, I thought you _hated_ coffee.”

 

“I do,” Louis pronounces proudly. “It’s an absolutely foul substance. Worst thing known to man.”

 

Harry’s dimples are practically craters in his face. It’s a good look for him, Louis notes and tries not to pant too loudly. They’ve just gotten a friendly banter underway. He can do a friendly banter in his sleep.

 

“I’m actually here for a Secret Santa gift,” Louis confesses. “I’ve no idea where to even begin, really.”

 

Harry’s face arranges itself into an appropriately sympathetic expression. “Didn’t get someone you know well?”  


Louis can’t help the grimace. “Not at all, actually. She’s well. . . she’s a bit full of herself. We don’t typically get along. You know, other than the usual work chit-chat.”

 

It’s then that Louis realizes that _Harry_ couldn’t have gotten anyone for Secret Santa that he knows either. He’s just started this week. He’s probably just as lost. Maybe they can commiserate in their mutual pain. Maybe the cheering up can even include some heated snogging and a quick hand job in the loo.

 

“That’s too bad. Secret Santa is one of my favorite things. Well, _Christmas_ in general, actually,” Harry confesses conspiratorially as it’s perfectly normal to share such personal details with someone who shagged and left you on a cold Friday night. Well, it might be for Harry, who’s really too perfect for words.

 

“You’ll like the Christmas party then,” Louis says. “It’s very merry.”

 

“Niall said you can’t stand the Christmas party,” Harry replies with a bit of a frown.

 

Louis decides Niall is the absolute worst. Of course he’s out there befriending Harry and making Louis look bad.

 

“It’s just, Grimshaw is always there,” Louis improvises, which is partially the truth. Grimshaw _does_ tend to skulk around the annual BBC Christmas Party, usually trying to lure Louis under the mistletoe. But the real reason that Louis has come to dislike Christmas is that the holidays are just depressing if you’re alone. Louis has been alone for too long now.

 

Louis tries not to think about the fact that if he hadn’t been the world’s most gigantic arsehole, he _might_ have been able to prevent his annual Christmas pity party. He fails.

 

“I can understand why he hangs around,” Harry admits a bit shyly. “I mean, you’re Louis Tomlinson. You’re stunning.”

 

Harry hangs around models and celebrities all day. People who have taken looking beautiful to a rare and celestial art form. And he thinks _Louis_ is stunning?

 

Louis revises his former opinion. He’s not the _world’s_ most gigantic arsehole, but the most gigantic arsehole in the whole damn _universe_.

 

“Now, what are the options?” Harry asks, turning his attention to the display in front of them and away from a subject that makes Louis both hot and cold all over.

 

“This portable carafe, maybe?” Louis says but there’s doubt in his voice.

 

“It’s nice,” Harry says, and Louis can definitely hear he’s holding back his real opinion.

 

“Now Harold, don’t be kind. Tell me what you really think.”

 

“I just think. . .” Harry stumbles a little, “I just think a present should be _personal_ , you know? And how can your present to your Secret Santa be personal if you don’t know them?”

 

“You’ve identified the main crux of the problem,” Louis admits.

 

“Maybe,” Harry says, and then hesitates. Louis gives him an encouraging smile. “Maybe you should give them a gift card? Because if you don’t know what they like, assuming you could pick something out is a bit presumptuous, yeah?”  


Louis frowns. If gift cards are acceptable, he could have spent approximately nine and a half minutes less in this godforsaken shop with its obnoxiously strong coffee aroma.

 

But then he also wouldn’t have run into Harry and while he’s perfectly aware that should be a positive, Louis can only see missing Harry as a negative.

 

“Gift card it is,” Louis says. He grabs the portable mug off the shelf and Harry gives him a perplexed frown.

 

“I thought you were giving them a gift card?” Harry asks as they make their way to the register.

 

“I am,” Louis says. “This is for me.”

 

Harry chuckles. Louis doesn’t understand how it’s possible for Harry to find him so endlessly entertaining or worthy of such glorious laughter, but he’s not exactly going to argue with him. He’s just going to accept it and enjoy it and maybe only doubt Harry’s sanity a tiny little bit.

 

“You really are tea obsessed,” Harry remarks after Louis has paid and they’re headed out of Starbucks.

 

“Tea is evidence of a higher form of human evolution,” Louis insists gravely as they stand outside on the street corner. He’s aware that it’s now fully dark and quite cold and they’ll need to go their separate ways—Louis to his flat and Harry to his own—but he doesn’t want this interlude to end. He wants to drink Harry up the way he does his tea.

 

It’s kind of distressing.

 

Harry shifts awkwardly from one foot to another. Louis wants to kick himself firmly in the arse for ruining this. “Well, I’d better be going. I’ll see you tomorrow?” Louis finally says, and turns to leave, but Harry grabs his arm, gently but firmly to stop him and before Louis can fully process what’s happening, Harry’s wrapped Louis up in one of the best hugs he’s ever received.

 

They stand like that for one moment, then another, before Louis has a complete meltdown and finally pulls away from Harry. The other man’s eyes are sparkling and he looks like he’s been lit up from within.

 

Louis can’t believe that it’s _him_ that’s done this. He’s not really sure there’s another explanation, though. Maybe excessive Christmas spirit?

 

“Tomorrow,” Harry affirms with another bright grin. “Bye, Lou.”

 

It’s only when Louis is home, unpacking his brand new portable tea mug that he realizes he never asked Harry who his Secret Santa was and how he was managing if he didn’t know _his_ recipient very well.

 

Louis resolves to ask him next time, if he’s not so distracted by his curls and eyes and general leggy striking self.

 

\---

 

Louis doesn’t get another Secret Santa present for two days.

 

In his professional opinion, if you’re going to set the bar that high the first go round, then it’s absolutely not okay to let so much time go by between gifts.

 

Louis is maybe pouting a little.

 

And his noticeably absent Secret Santa isn’t the only thing making him irritable. He’s spent the last day collaborating with Harry on a story for the upcoming London Fashion Week.

 

Here is the problem.

 

Harry is a professional. Harry is smart and quick and so bloody, _bloody_ kind. He has all kinds of fucking admiration for Louis, which he’s quick to state more than once when Louis makes a suggestion.

 

He’s really a sweet, lovely man—and Louis would give up just about anything to turn back time to Friday night and not be a such an arsehole.

 

It’s one thing to have a one night stand and experience some mild regret because the sex was good. It’s entirely another to have a one night stand and then have to spend _all this fucking time_ around the man in question and figure out just how much Louis is missing out on.

 

Basically, Louis hates himself—and since he generally thinks he’s mildly warm shit, this is a situation he both doesn’t like and doesn’t appreciate.

 

“Cheer up,” Zayn tells him as Louis picks at his sandwich at lunch. “You’re pouting and it’s really unattractive.”

 

Louis glares at Zayn. He’s not helpful _at all_. He demanded Zayn take him out for lunch to distract him, and so far it’s not working.

 

“If you like Harry, ask him out. It’s not like he’ll say no.”

 

Louis can’t help but roll his eyes. “Okay, when you ask out Liam, I’ll ask out Harry. How’s that?”  


Zayn just shakes his head and returns to his fish and chips. “I told you, we’re mates. He thinks that’s what we are.”

 

“No, that’s what _we_ are,” Louis corrects maybe a little more gently than he meant. He knows how much Zayn likes Liam; just how long he’s pined over him. It can’t be easy to sit by and do nothing. Louis has been doing it for two days and he feels like he’s going out of his mind.

 

“I got Liam for Secret Santa,” Zayn finally confesses a few minutes later, quiet and contemplative. “I don’t know what to do.”

 

This is big. Zayn _always_ knows what to do. Which is why Louis is mostly convinced that Liam is the right person for him—Zayn is always certain and convinced of his own certainty. Liam brings out a vulnerability that’s good for him.

 

“Well, that’s pretty much perfect,” Louis points out. “You can woo him via gifts. What have you gotten him already?”  


Zayn frowns. “Yeah, I thought that too. And then I thought about what Liam likes—what he’d really like—and none of it is romantic. All it’s gonna prove is how well I know him.”

 

For being so disgustingly smart, Zayn can sometimes be a moron. “Well, of _course_ it will,” Louis corrects him. “And that’s the whole point. You know him better than just about anyone else. Make him see that.”

 

Zayn doesn’t argue with this, merely gives his last few chips a contemplative stare. He’s quiet as they walk back to the office and Louis thinks maybe he’s finally gotten through to him. Maybe _Louis_ has been the one to finally break the stalemate that has kept Zayn and Liam from _finally_ seeing how much potential they have together.

 

It cheers Louis up a little. He’s not so selfish that he can’t enjoy when good things happen to good people.

 

Then he walks into his office and there’s another gift sitting on the desk.

 

It’s a small square box, wrapped in green and red striped paper, with a particularly jaunty silver bow on top. Louis carefully unwraps it—more methodically than he can _ever_ remember unwrapping a gift before. But this isn’t just any gift. This gift has taken on somewhat monumental proportions in his head. He’s afraid he’ll be disappointed this time, but he’s almost _more_ afraid that he won’t be disappointed at all.

 

He lifts the lid off the box and exhales hard.

 

It’s socks. His Secret Santa gave him socks.

 

And not just any socks. They’re high quality cotton, maybe even mixed with cashmere wool, and they’re swirling with fanciful patterns. They’re exactly the kind of socks he’s always thought he should be wearing, but for some reason he’s stuck with the traditional, rather dull, checks and stripes.

 

There’s a pair with whimsical teacups. There’s another pair dancing with flames and tiny firetrucks.

 

Louis strokes over them and can’t help but be a bit terrified.

 

Whoever is buying him these gifts knows him better than he even knows himself and Louis gets a sudden and very distinct impression that he’s not just being given Christmas gifts—he’s being _wooed_.

 

Someone is doing to him what he _just_ suggested Zayn do for Liam.

 

There is only one person at the BBC who maybe knows him well enough _and_ has expressed interest in him—Grimshaw.

 

Louis really, really doesn’t want to think that these sweet and crazy thoughtful gifts are the product of Nick Grimshaw. But he can’t think of who else they could possibly be from.

 

Deep down, of course, he _wants_ them to be from Harry. He wants it so much that he’s actually afraid of the strength of his feeling. He’s barely known Harry a week. He shouldn’t be having such strong feelings about him _already_.

 

But there’s no way that they could legitimately be from Harry. Harry hasn’t known him long enough to fully understand the breadth of Louis’ tea obsession or that he’s always wanted to hide crazy, fanciful socks under the BBC news desk while he does segments.

 

It couldn’t possibly be Harry, and Louis didn’t even understand how much he wanted it to be him until that moment, when crushing disappointment nearly ruins how much he’s enjoying this gift.

 

He shifts the box on the desk, moving it to the side so he can check his email when another little card pokes out from underneath. Louis lunges for it, practically shredding the envelope in his eagerness to read the message inside. He knows that Secret Santa is supposed to be, well, _secret_ , but maybe there’s something in the note that will reveal who sent the tea basket and the socks.

 

It’s both illuminating and incredibly frustrating.

 

“A little bit of you, hidden in plain sight,” it says.

 

Louis wants to screech like a dying whale but he can’t. It’s an office. Screeching, especially like a dying whale, is generally frowned upon. So he goes to find Niall instead, convincing himself as he walks over to that side of the building that the managers wouldn’t have instituted a Secret Santa exchange if they didn’t want employees spending 99% of their day speculating as to who’s sending them gifts.

 

Niall’s at his computer station, which is in the weather lab.

 

Louis gives the bank of equipment against the opposite wall a dubious look. “Do you actually know what any of this does?” he asks. Niall has never particularly struck him as the scientific type, for all he’s supposed to be a meteorologist.

 

“Not really,” Niall announces cheerfully.

 

Well that explains why so much of the time Louis is stuck in a heavy coat when it’s sunny and without his umbrella when it’s raining. He resolves to spend much less time listening to the weather forecast.

 

“I’m having a breakdown,” Louis says matter-of-factly, changing the subject to what’s _really_ important.

 

Niall laughs, which is not helpful. Louis wants to tell him he came to him, _not_ Zayn, because Zayn has already been unhelpful, but he keeps his mouth shut.

 

“You should just ask him out,” Niall says.

 

“I _can’t_ ,” Louis practically wails.

 

“If I thought you actually had a good reason, I’d ask why, but we both know it’s because you’re a massive chicken shit and can’t face up to the fact that you made a huge mistake,” Niall points out calmly.

 

“He probably hates me,” Louis wails again.

 

Niall rolls his eyes—which, _excuse me Niall_ , Louis thinks, that is _his_ favorite response to idiocy.

 

“He doesn’t hate you. Jesus, the boy looks at you like you’re a combination of Marc Jacobs and Jesus.”

 

Louis grimaces.

 

“Don’t you have any actual work to do?” Niall asks pointedly. “Like a feature on favorite boy bands on the twentieth century?”

 

“No. And Take That. _Obviously_.” Louis stalks away after that because he’s not really in the mood to have another debate with Niall over whether Westlife is better than Take That.

 

 _Westlife_ , for the love of God.

 

Louis is just going to have to do his freaking out alone, _privately_. So that nobody can tell him _again_ that he should just ask Harry out. As if it’s so easy! It’s not, it’s _really_ not, Louis tells himself. He’s already walked out on him once and told him again that they can’t date because they’re co-workers. He’d make an enormous fool out of himself.

 

Louis ignores the tiny voice in his head that says he’s _already_ making a fool out of himself.

 

\--

 

The next day, Louis and Harry are set to film their first segment together, on London’s Fashion Week that’s coming up in February.

 

It’s annoying because he does pride himself on his professionalism and his ability to (mostly) be on time to tapings. But instead of being on time, he has a mini meltdown over his quiff, which according to Lou looks fine, but according to him looks like a sack of garbage.

 

By the time she fixes it to his satisfaction, he only has a few minutes before filming begins.

 

Harry is already seated behind the desk, and someone is fussing with his curls, making sure they fall just right, and another assistant is hovering behind his right shoulder, probably giving him some last minute instructions. The lights are shining on him and Louis slows as he approaches the dais, because Harry looks downright angelic.

 

Then he catches sight of Louis and his whole face just lights up. And yeah, Louis is beginning to wonder himself why Harry doesn’t hate him a little bit more. He _deserves_ it and every day longer that he goes without indulging in the expected winds Louis tighter. He feels like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop all the time and he _hates_ it.

 

“Louis, you’re here!” Harry exclaims and Louis tries to rearrange his face so he looks marginally less fond. He doesn’t think it really works because Harry is still beaming at him like he just hung the sun from the sky.

 

“You ready to go?” Louis asks, attempting to keep this professional and less “I’m panting because I can barely refrain from bending you over this desk and fucking your brains out.”

 

“Yep,” Harry says, his smile downshifting to more of an endeared grin.

 

“Just wanted to make sure, since it’s our first time and all,” Louis says.

 

It just comes out, really horrifically phrased, and Louis wants to sink through the floor. Except Harry doesn’t even frown, though he definitely catches onto the innuendo, smirking at Louis as they settle down at the desk.

 

“A little bit nervous,” Harry admits about a minute before the begin filming. “More excited nervous than nervous nervous.”

 

Louis is so, _so_ whipped for this boy. “You’ll be wonderful,” he murmurs and reaches over, under the cover of the desk, to give Harry’s thigh a quick squeeze.

 

It doesn’t matter that Louis’ intentions were innocent and kind. That all he wanted was to give Harry a reassuring gesture. It doesn’t matter because now all Louis can feel is the warmth of Harry’s skin through his trousers and the way his muscles tense at the contact. Louis’ brain fogs up with a whole lot of sexual thoughts that sure aren’t going to help him get through this segment.

 

It’s a very good thing that Harry gives the introduction. Louis has about fifteen seconds to drag his mind back to a safer zone, away from thoughts of skin, eyes, chest, hair, muscles, _cock_. _Harry’s_ cock, to be specific. Harry’s big, thick cock that made Louis come harder than he has in. . .

 

“Louis, what do you think?” Harry says pointedly, interrupting Louis’ sexual daze, and Louis realizes that his fifteen seconds are _way_ over, and that whatever Harry is asking him isn’t even in the teleprompter. He’s been so distracted he actually _forgot_ they were live. Oh god, this is a disaster. Now, not only will everyone at the BBC know what a mess Louis is over Harry Styles, the whole _world_ will. Louis wishes a black hole would open up in the studio and swallow him.

 

But Louis hasn’t been in broadcasting for five years for nothing. He’s quick and witty and can think on his feet. It’s one of the reasons he has the job he does.

 

He shoves the embarrassment he’s feeling roughly aside and focuses on digging himself out of this.

 

“I don’t know, Harry, I try not to consider things like, why did Gwyneth Paltrow wear that hideously unflattering Ralph Lauren to the Oscars? Celebrity style decisions, like so many of their _other_ decisions, are just unfathomable to one such as myself.”

 

Harry smiles over at him. “And here I thought you weren’t paying attention.” Luckily for Louis and for his job and his income and his unfortunate obsession with owning every jumper Topman has ever created, he remembered exactly what they were supposed to be discussing in the intro—celebrities’ unfortunate style missteps—and he’s recovered.

 

He just hopes that Harry won’t question him after the segment because he’s going to have to lie. He can’t possibly tell him that he was fantasizing about his _cock_ , for god’s sake.

 

“Always to you, dear Harold,” Louis replies back cheekily, even though it’s not in the script. He can’t remember the last time he truly ad-libbed with Harry’s predecessor. But Harry’s a whole different story.

 

The rest of the taping goes well, even _spectacular_ at some points. Louis is on point with his witty comebacks and teasing looks beautiful on Harry with his flushed cheeks and Disney Princess eyes. The whole of the UK is probably going to fall in love with him.

 

Louis sympathizes with them; their thoughts will never be their own again.

 

\--

 

“What _was_ that?” Harry asks, following Louis as he books it back to his desk to avoid just this question. Louis slows down and lets Harry’s long legs catch up, because it’s not like he’s actually managed to avoid anything. Harry is too smart and clearly too professional not to notice that Louis just spaced out.

 

Louis just prays that he doesn’t make the connection between Louis touching Harry’s leg and Louis losing it.

 

“Just got a bit distracted, that’s all,” Louis insists lightly. “Sorry if it stressed you.”

 

Harry crinkles up his nose and Louis can practically see the thoughts whirling away underneath his curls. “It wasn’t. . . I mean, you didn’t. . . because of _me_ , right?”

 

He looks adorably confused. Like a bit of a lost puppy. Louis wants to find him a home. Okay, Louis wants to take him to _his_ home.

 

Louis knows he needs to lie. He needs to deflect. He needs to do— _say_ —something. But his mind is blank because when it comes down to it, Louis has already lied to Harry once, when he said he didn’t want to stay the night, and the guilt over it has haunted him the last two weeks and he really, really does not want to do it again.

 

“Cause, I mean, I thought,” Harry continues stuttering along and Louis realizes somewhere along the line that he’s made the decision to let him keep talking even though he will almost definitely come to the right conclusion. “I didn’t realize you still. . .”

 

Louis feels very calm. Like maybe how astronauts feel before liftoff. Or runners at the Olympics before the race begins. “I do still,” he admits softly. He can’t quite meet Harry’s eyes, so he looks at the floor. The carpeting in the hallway outside his office is truly ugly. He’s never once noticed that before. But then he typically doesn’t have a problem meeting other people’s gazes while they’re talking.

 

“Oh. _Oh_ ,” Harry says, and Louis shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

 

“I’ve got to go. Meeting,” Louis improvises. He decides that it’s only partially a lie. He does need to go. He does have a meeting.

 

He needs to go home and melt down the rest of the way, until he’s a pile of goo on the floor. And the meeting isn’t with a co-worker, it’s with a bottle of wine.

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow then?” Harry asks hopefully and all Louis has time to do before he disappears into his office and safety is give a quick nod and a friendly wave goodbye.

 

He closes the door behind him and literally sinks to the carpet. Even if it is hideous.

 

He is so, so, _so_ fucked.

 

\---

 

The next morning when Louis walks into his office, there’s another gift sitting on the desk.

 

It’s not as elegantly presented as the first two—just a simple rough bag, though it is tied with a bright blue ribbon. Louis picks it up and even though he’s mildly hungover, he can’t help the bright smile that overtakes his face as he reads the label.

 

“Christmas ‘Coal,’” he says out loud. “Black popcorn with sea salt.”

 

Of course, there’s a card and Louis fumbles with the bag as he scrabbles for it, tearing it out of the envelope.

 

“Because you’re on the naughty list,” is all it says. No real hint or clue to the sender’s identity, but Louis can’t help hoping. Mostly because he is desperate to prove it’s not Nick.

 

He hasn’t decided what he’ll do yet if it _is_ Nick—and he is by far the strongest possibility.

 

Through a haze of wine last night, Louis managed to come to two distinct conclusions:

 

  1.   He definitely wants to date his Secret Santa.



 

2\. He definitely wants to date Harry.

 

Unless he’s way off base, there is almost no way his Secret Santa _could_ be Harry. They’d talked at the pub, that first night, but it wasn’t for very long and while they definitely hit it off, Louis can’t remember ever mentioning any of the items he’s received.

 

In conclusion, he decides that while Harry might still be attracted to him, he can’t possibly know him this well. Nick probably doesn’t either, but he’s also been working in the same vague vicinity for the last few years. He might have picked up some things that Louis doesn’t realize and he’s waited this long to use any of them. Patience doesn’t really seem like Nick’s strong suit, but Louis guesses he could be wildly off base when it comes to him.

 

But he doesn’t really think so.

 

So really, Louis is back to square one. And square one sucks. Louis is sick to death of square one.

 

\--

 

Of course, that afternoon is when Nick conveniently decides to drop by, waving yet another set of “exclusive” tickets. Louis glances up and forces himself not to immediately and instantly dismiss him. Nick might be his Secret Santa. Yes, that would not be an ideal situation, but anyone who’s sent these gifts has unplumbed depths that Louis wants to explore.

 

It just so happens that it might be Nick’s depths. Louis has to refrain from shuddering at the thought.

 

“Lovely Louis,” Nick calls out in an annoying sing-song voice that Louis hopes he will _never_ repeat, “I’m here to ask a massive favor.”

 

Louis doesn’t roll his eyes. That is literally the very best he can do when it comes to giving Nick a fighting chance. “I didn’t realize we were that friendly,” Louis retorts. Because, well, it’s still _Nick Grimshaw_ , and if Louis didn’t give him crap then Nick would probably think he was coming down with Ebola.

 

“Ah, but circumstances can always change. At least I hope they can.” Nick again situates himself in an overly friendly manner at the edge of Louis’ desk, leaving him very little personal space. Louis is not pleased and scoots his chair back a few generous few inches.

 

“What is it this time?” Louis asks, giving himself quite a bit of credit for asking at all. He doesn’t really care what the event is—the only reason Nick even asks him to these types of things is that he wants to impress Louis with all the important people that he knows. What he doesn’t realize is that Louis could give a fuck how many celebrities Nick hobnobs with on a regular basis. Nick seems to forget that Louis _reports_ on these celebrities on a daily basis. He knows that they shit just the same as the rest of the world.

 

“The Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show after party,” Nick says with a cat-that-ate-the-cream grin.

 

Louis regrets even asking. It’s only encouraged him.

 

“You do realize that I’m gay, right?” Louis asks testily. “That shoving me in a room full of partially-exposed breasts isn’t going to result in me wanting to rip your clothes off?”

 

Nick laughs. Louis hasn’t ever really wondered if his comebacks hurt Nick’s feelings but they mustn’t, because he does tend to find them amusing and after all, he’s still back here every week or so, ready to take more abuse.

 

“Don’t worry, love, if I thought clothes ripping was even remotely on the menu, I’d take you someplace else.”

 

“Well, it’s not,” Louis sniffs.

 

“So then, are we on?” Nick asks again, dangling the tickets in front of Louis’ face, as if he’s so desperate to take them that he can barely restrain himself.

 

That is not even remotely the case.

 

Louis can think of about a million other places he would rather spend an evening—hell included—than the after party of the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show.

 

“No,” Louis says decisively. “Sorry, can’t.”

 

Louis can’t figure out if Harry has some kind of Nick Grimshaw alert button installed because the moment Louis looks up to dismiss Nick once and for all, there Harry is in the doorway, his intent gaze practically staking a claim on Louis.

 

Louis would normally _not_ enjoy claim-staking but this is Harry, who seems to be the exception to many of Louis’ rules, and Nick is also right here, and it’s usually so difficult to get rid of him. Louis decides to grab the opportunity by the balls.

 

“I hoped you’d still be here,” Harry says, prowling into the room a bit like he’s a hunter and Louis is his very delectable prey.

 

“Here I am, in all my glory,” Louis simpers. He hopes that he’s making it clear enough to Nick that while _his_ advances are decidedly unwelcome, Harry’s are an entirely different story.

 

“You _are_ glorious,” Harry agrees with a slow smile. “Just ran into Niall. Said he was going for pints with Liam and Zayn. Wanted to know if you were going to join.”

 

Louis doesn’t even have to _look_ Nick’s direction to see him practically salivating over receiving an invitation to their pub night. He’s been angling for an invitation, even to a group event, for as long as Louis has known him.

 

The words are out of Louis’ mouth before he can even stop them. “’Course,” he smiles. “And if you’d like to join me?”

 

Harry’s smile rivals the sun. “I’d love that,” he gushes and he seems genuinely surprised at the invitation.

 

Louis can’t help himself. He glances up at Nick and is promptly rewarded with an extremely sour expression. Louis enjoys it far too much.

 

“Well, Grimshaw, it looks like we’re off,” Louis says, grabbing his coat from the stand in the corner. “I’d say it’s been lovely, but well . . . I won’t lie.”

 

Louis knows Nick is glowering as he walks out of his office practically hand-in-hand with Harry. He also knows it’s only a matter of time before the hot new office gossip is that he’s dating Harry.

 

Louis decides it’s character development that he doesn’t even care.

 

\---

The final piece of the trifecta of guilt and self-hatred practically eating Louis up is that Harry gets along with the rest of the lads like a house on fire.

 

So basically, they had the best sex that Louis has maybe ever had—the _first_ time—and he’s gorgeous, kind and sweet. And he fits right into Louis’ friend group like he’s the final piece they were missing.

 

Louis goes to the loo after about half an hour and gently but insistently hits his head against the mirror as he washes his hands. “Why me, why me, _why me_?” he moans.

 

Unfortunately his reflection in the mirror doesn’t have an answer.

 

At least an answer he likes.

 

When he walks back to their table, Niall’s voice, telling him that he’s just a chicken shit, is echoing in his head, and when Harry glances up at him, his curls framing his alight face like a halo, Louis has never wished so fervently that time travel was real.

 

He needs to go back two weeks and when Harry asks him to stay, he needs to say yes.

 

He doesn’t _want_ this—he _needs_ this.

 

Because somehow, in some way that he can’t even really understand because it’s only been _two weeks_ , Louis believes that Harry is his. This sweet as sugar, hot as fuck conundrum of a boy is _his_.

 

He slides into the booth, and like it’s a natural reaction, Harry’s arm reaches up and settles on the ledge of the booth, right above Louis’ shoulder.

 

It isn’t Louis’ fault that he spends the next ten minutes praying that Harry’s arm will slide down, just enough, and he’ll be cradling Louis. Louis wants to be cradled. He _craves_ it. And he’s never craved it in his entire life.

 

It takes ten minutes for Louis to realize that while he’s been talking to Zayn and Liam the entire time, looking right over at them, they’re in the exact same position—except Liam has upped his game and he’s actually got his arm around Zayn.

 

Zayn is glowing.

 

Louis hates his life, but he does love his friends. Especially Zayn. So he’s willing to overlook his own personal misery and be happy for him.

 

“So you lads ready for the Christmas bash?” Niall asks, from his own position at the head of the booth. Louis doesn’t want to think about how the seating arrangements both make too much sense and not enough—but of course he does anyway.

 

He’s only had one beer and his mind is still not cooperating.

 

“I’m really excited,” Liam says. “I guess that’s when our Secret Santas will be revealed?”

 

“What’d you get, Li?” Niall asks, way more interested that any one person should be in Secret Santas.

 

“Such great stuff,” Liam enthuses, and Louis can’t help but exchange a bit of a smug look with Zayn. Though from the way Zayn is all cuddled up to Liam right now, it doesn’t even look like he’s going to need his Secret Santa points. “A membership to the dog park for Loki. A new portable blender for my protein shakes. I can’t believe how well they know me. Like, it’s all stuff I never thought I needed, but I _do_.”

 

Zayn moves from merely looking smug to straight up enamored. Louis rolls his eyes.

 

“That’s what I love most about Christmas,” Harry inserts. “The chance to get someone something they didn’t know they needed but it turns out they can’t live without.”

 

Louis hates Christmas. He hates that Harry has just described how Louis feels about _him_. Maybe he can just ask his Secret Santa to gift-wrap Harry and deliver him to Louis ASAP.

 

“Funny how that works, isn’t it, Lou?” Niall cackles, his voice growing louder as he finishes his pint. He glances over at Louis and then at Harry. “You know, Louis has got another psychic Secret Santa. You won’t stop talking about _your_ gifts either, Lou.”

 

Louis wants to kill Niall, slowly and painfully.

 

“The one today was especially brilliant,” Louis confides. He can’t bring himself to talk about the perfection of the tea basket or the socks yet. They hit a little too close to home. “Black coal that was actually popcorn! Because I’ve been naughty.”

 

“Only you, Lou,” Zayn chuckles. “Your Secret Santa’s learned you’re not very nice.”

 

“I think you’re quite nice,” Harry says, leaping to Louis’ defense like his very own white knight. Louis doesn’t think he deserves it, but it still feels really good.

 

“Oh, I can be nice. But I can definitely also be quite naughty,” Louis smirks. He can’t help but look over at Harry and of course, _that’s_ the exact moment Harry chooses to drop his hand and give Louis’ shoulder a squeeze. And even better he doesn’t move his hand.

 

Maybe he’s not so fucked after all. I mean, he’s probably going to have grovel and apologize about a hundred thousand times, but those things are nothing if it means he can have Harry. He’d lose his pride in a heartbeat. He just doesn’t want to lose his pride _and_ lose Harry. That might be the end of him.

 

\--

Far too soon, Niall says he needs to get home. Liam, is, _of course_ , the next to call it quits, very seriously commenting on the importance of a regular sleep schedule. Then since Liam’s leaving, Zayn ever so politely offers to walk him out. Louis can only imagine what they’ll get up to outside. He almost wishes he could get a recording.

 

Within a few minutes, it’s just Louis and Harry, and yeah, Louis isn’t going to move until Harry does because they’re cuddled up together so nice. Harry is big and warm and broad and Louis fits perfectly against him. He can look up into Harry’s face at just the right angle and see how much Harry’s eyes light up at every single damn thing Louis says.

 

Really, he’s just talking absolute silly nonsense now—if he was ever smooth, it’s long gone now, lost in a fever haze of Harry, Harry, _Harry_. Louis feels like his entire universe has shrunk down to just this booth. He never wants to leave it.

 

That’s when Harry gives a long yawn and says slowly, “I’d better be getting home. Early day tomorrow.”

 

Louis can’t help his little groan as Harry untangles them. When he glances over at Harry’s face, he is pretty sure he sees at least a tiny bit of his disappointment written there. Which is what ultimately gives him the courage to announce, “well, that means I’d better get you home, Styles.”

 

Harry literally trips over air when Louis says it. Harry’s generally uncoordinated movements are a lot more adorable than Louis ever anticipated, and this is by far the most adorable.

 

“Gonna walk me home, huh?” Harry grins over at him. “Afraid I won’t make it?”

 

That is not at all why Louis is going to walk him home, but if Harry’s teasing then Louis can most definitely tease right back.

 

“Not sure you’ll make it home in one piece otherwise, Bambi,” Louis says, reaching over and pinching his side as they get dressed to go back out into the cold.

 

Even though he’s still wearing what Louis privately refers to as his “model” coat, Harry’s got a scarf wrapped around his neck and a beanie tugged low over his ears. He looks like so young, like a uni student, and Louis can’t help the irrational thought that he wants to have known Harry back then. He wants to not have had this long stretch of so many lonely years, now that he knows what he could have had.

 

The thought makes Louis silent and contemplative as they head towards Harry’s flat.

 

“Do you guys go out often?” Harry asks into the quiet.

 

“It’s supposed to be once a week,” Louis admits, “but honestly, it ends up being more like three or four.”

 

“It was nice,” Harry admits softly. “I really liked it.” Louis wishes Harry had tacked on _I really like you_ to the end of that sentence, but maybe it’s supposed to be unspoken.

 

Because he’s fairly certain that Harry does. There’s just this way that Harry looks down at him—it’s so much the same as it was that first night, too—like Louis is wonderful and enchanting and Harry cannot believe that he’s lucky enough to be next to him.

 

“It can be too quiet at home,” Harry says. “I’m not too used to living alone. I thought I’d like it, after so many years of flatmates. But it’s lonely.”

 

Louis knows exactly how the bitter still silence of an empty flat can creep up on you. He’s felt it too many nights. “Yeah.”

 

“And it’s no fun cooking for just me,” Harry adds.

 

“No fun is right, when it comes to cooking,” Louis can’t help but admit. “I’m rubbish at cooking. Can barely boil water.”

 

“Louis,” Harry says, slowing a little and then stopping, catching Louis’ elbows gently in his hands. “You’re almost thirty. Surely you can boil water.”

 

Louis flushes a little in embarrassment. Maybe this is when Harry’s hero worship turns to something else. Maybe this is when the bloom begins to fall off the rose. He really hopes not, though because he wants a chance to date Harry and Louis is certainly full of flaws. There’s no way he’ll be able to hide them from Harry forever. And his lack of cooking ability is hardly the worst of the lot.

 

“Uh, well, not exactly,” Louis hedges, then catches the stunned look on Harry’s face and bursts into laughter. “Cooking is hard!” he protests.

 

“Maybe you just need someone to cook for you, then,” Harry says, and turns to keep walking, but Louis is pretty certain he saw deep dimples and a knowing grin on that gorgeous face. And he wonders.

 

Was Harry talking about himself?

 

Louis spends the next five minutes obsessing over whether Harry was actually trying to ask him on some kind of date, and _not_ charming the pants off of him, which he realizes was a severe tactical error when they stop in front of Harry’s building.

 

Maybe if Louis had spent the last five minutes being incredibly charming, he could have theoretically leaned in for a goodnight kiss. Even a short, sweet peck. Louis isn’t picky. He’ll take just about anything he can get.

 

But as it is, before he can even have a debate with himself, Harry’s pulling him in for another one of those warm, deep hugs, and that’s _almost_ enough. It might have really been enough but Louis knows what kissing Harry feels like. He knows how heavy and wonderful Harry’s cock is on his tongue. He knows how incredible Harry can make him feel.

 

The hug is lovely but it just isn’t enough and then even that’s over because Harry’s pulling away. The hug is lovely, but it just isn’t enough. And now Harry’s pulling away, a bit of a knowing smirk still on his pretty lips. Niall’s right. He’s definitely a chicken shit.

 

“Have a good night, Lou,” Harry says softly. “Thank you for walking me home.”

 

It would sound exactly like the end of a date, but if it was a date Louis would definitely be kissing Harry right now and Harry would be inviting him up for a ‘cup of tea.’

 

And just like that, Harry’s turned and he’s headed up his stairs. It’s over. Louis had another chance but he blew it.

 

But it doesn’t really _feel_ like a blown chance, Louis realizes as he walks home. It feels like a beginning, not the end.

 

Maybe there’s a chance, still. Louis is counting on it now. Determined, he makes himself a promise that if he’s presented with another opportunity to show Harry how much he likes him, he’s not going to blow it again. He’ll grab it— _and_ Harry—and make good on it.

 

\----

 

There’s no Secret Santa gift on his desk the next morning, and that drops Louis’ insanely good mood down a notch or two.

 

But Louis’ Secret Santa is just that, he decides, a _secret_. He’s not really real, if it’s even a _he_ at all. Harry is real and here and he looks like he might be willing to give Louis another chance. Louis is trying to figure out how to ask for it still, but he’s confident he’ll figure something out. It’s just a matter of time.

 

So of course, when Louis comes back from the staff meeting, there’s a wrapped gift sitting so innocently on the middle of his desk and he can’t ignore the little thrill of excitement that shifts through him at the sight.

 

When he unwraps the square, flat gift, he pulls out a hardcover cookbook entitled, “Cooking for Two.”

 

It was a matter of opinion and hunch before, but now Louis is absolutely sure. He is being wooed through these gifts. He’s still desperately afraid it’s Grimshaw. Maybe Nick took his comments about the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show after party to heart, and he’s decided to go for a more personal, low key approach. A date at home.

 

It’s a sweet thought until Louis gets to the image of them in the kitchen and it’s Nick who’s grinning over at Louis and not Harry. It should only be Harry, as far as Louis is concerned.

 

But then, he and Harry _just_ talked about cooking last night. Maybe this is a sign. A hint. Louis wants to believe but the rest of the gifts were just far too perfect for Louis. Harry just _can’t_ know him that well, yet. It’s not possible.

 

Basically, Louis has never been so conflicted in his life.

 

He yanks his phone out of his pocket and dials the one person who usually can calm him down. Zayn answers on the second ring.

 

“I’m definitely being wooed,” Louis insists loudly into the phone and Zayn just chuckles.

 

“You think that your Secret Santa took your own advice,” Zayn points out. “That’s a little weird even for you. Unless I was your Secret Santa—and I’m definitely not.”

 

“No,” Louis grumbles back, “you’re Liam’s Secret Santa. Which, by the way, congratulations. That seems to be going well. _Finally_.”

 

“Trust you to make some backhanded compliment about how long it’s taken me,” Zayn says, but he sounds lighthearted and so, _so_ happy. Louis wants to sound that happy, but instead he sounds like a whining petulant toddler. Life is just not fair.

 

“That doesn’t mean I’m not still happy for you,” Louis points out. “So you’re gonna tell him at the Christmas party and seal the deal then?”

 

“Louis, I hate to break it to you, but the fact that you just used the phrase ‘seal the deal’ makes me wonder how you ever managed to get into Harry’s bed in the first place.”

 

“Wanker,” Louis retorts.

 

“But yeah,” Zayn says, and he sounds more certain than Louis has heard him in a long time. At least where it concerns Liam. “Yeah, I think it’s gonna happen.” He pauses and it’s such a loaded pause that Louis just _knows_ what’s coming next and that he really won’t like it. But then he doesn’t like _so_ much of Zayn’s advice. “And I think you should talk to Harry. I mean, _really_ talk to him, Lou. He clearly likes you. And you like him. I don’t even know why I even have to tell you these things. Pretending like you’ve fucked it up when you haven’t is just _dumb_.”

 

“But I told him I couldn’t date him!” Louis exclaims, even though he knows that’s also bullshit.

 

Zayn does too. “Yeah, nobody believes that load of crap. Especially Harry. So _talk_ to him. For the love of god. Your moodiness is beginning to grate.”

 

“I am not moody,” Louis insists primly but he knows he has been. He’s been a bloody mess since he and Harry fucked and then he proceeded to fuck Harry over.

 

“Louis.”

 

“What about my Secret Santa? He’s wooing me. Should I just ignore that?”

 

“Louis,” Zayn repeats and it sounds like even he is losing the rest of his rather infinite supply of patience. “Talk to Harry.”

 

“Fine, fine, _fine_ ,” Louis grumbles. “You’ve been a whole fat load of _no_ help, by the way.”

 

He hangs up the phone and stares moodily at his computer screen. He’s practically turning into a paranormal young adult novel and he is _not_ that guy, for god’s sake.

 

\--

 

The morning of the 23rd dawns cold and rainy and drizzly. Louis is a mess of apprehension. He’s decided he needs to talk to Harry today, because the whole office will be on break for Christmas and he can’t bear letting this go for another seven days.

 

It’s also the day of the Christmas party. Which means Louis will also finally discover the identity of his Secret Santa.

 

He’s still terrified it’s Grimshaw. He’s half-convinced himself that it _is_ Grimshaw. And as he styled his hair this morning, Louis stared in the mirror and practiced half a dozen scenarios where he lets Nick know how much he appreciated the gifts but that he really, _really_ can’t date him.

 

About half of his role plays ended up with Louis confessing how dating is out of the question because someone else has already captured his heart.

 

That’s scary, but it’s even scarier to think that if he doesn’t speak up, he’s going to lose Harry.

 

He’s a mess and such a hurricane of emotion that he doesn’t even notice the fabric hanging over the back of his desk chair at first. It’s only when he goes to pull it out and his fingers hit the softest, silkiest fabric in the world instead of the hard plastic of the chair that he looks down and just gasps.

 

There’s an absolutely _gorgeous_ Burberry scarf hanging off the back of his chair. Louis gapes and reaches out again to stroke it reverently.

 

It’s definitely cashmere and it’s also this incredible pattern of blue plaid. It’ll look absolutely stunning against his skin and will exactly match his eyes.

 

There’s a tag, of course. In the same distinctive handwriting, it simply says, “something this lovely deserves to be seen on someone worthy of its beauty.”

 

And just like that, Louis wants to cry. Whoever this is, whoever has thought up and given him the most perfect set of gifts he’s ever received in his life, is someone he needs in his life.

 

But if it’s Nick Grimshaw, then he’s going to have to be really, brutally, horribly honest and say that it will have to be as a friend. A friend _only_. And he’s definitely not giving the scarf back.

 

If it’s Harry, which is a possibility that Louis has barely even let himself contemplate, then he’ll lay his own soul a bit bare and confess that he’s never regretted anything in his life the way he regrets the way he acted that Friday night.

 

He should have stayed; he _wanted_ to stay. He was too afraid then, but he’s not afraid now.

 

Louis worshipfully lifts the scarf from the chair and wraps it around his neck, sighing in wonder at the way it feels against his skin. It’s heaven on earth.

 

\--

 

By the time the afternoon and the Christmas party rolls around, Louis has come to think of his scarf as a good luck charm.

 

Not that it’s done anything particularly lucky for him today—he’s actually had most of the day to himself in his office, with everyone rushing around, trying to get the last little bits of work done before Christmas spirit and copious amounts of alcohol make that impossible—but Louis feels an immeasurable amount of comfort every time he reaches up to stroke a bit of the fabric between his fingers.

 

He feels safe and though it may be a bit silly, he also feels loved. Adored. Cherished.

 

A lot of the ways he’s realized that he wants to make Harry feel, if Harry will give him another chance.

 

They used to hold the Christmas party at one of the swankier hotels, but with the declining economy, even the BBC has gotten cheap and now it’s only held in the cleared out cafeteria. Louis supposes they’ve done a halfway decent job making it festive as he walks in and scans around the room, obstinately looking at the decorations. In reality, he’s searching for Harry.

 

He finds Niall instead, hovering— _of course_ —near the punch bowl. Which Louis is sure he’s already generously spiked with something lethal.

 

Louis makes a mental note to stay away from the punch. It might give him a bit of liquid courage, but the last thing he wants is to get sloppy drunk and fuck everything up with Harry _yet again_.

 

He glances around the room again and though it’s slowly beginning to fill with staff, he still doesn’t see Harry’s distinctive curls anywhere and Louis can’t help but huff in frustration.

 

“Don’t worry,” Niall says, throwing a reassuring arm around Louis and smirking at him knowingly, “he’ll be here.”

 

“Niall, you don’t even know who I’m looking for,” Louis retorts primly. He isn’t sure how he feels about the entire office knowing he’s basically gagging for Harry.

 

Niall isn’t technically the _whole_ office, but between Niall and Nick, it’s probably only a matter of hours, not days, until the gossip has made its rounds.

 

“Louis,” Niall replies very seriously—so seriously that Louis actually take a break from searching for Harry, “ _everyone_ knows who you’re looking for.”

 

“Oh.” He really ought to be more embarrassed by this.

 

“Yep.” Niall wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at him. “You gonna get him tonight the way Zayn’s gonna get Liam?”

“If Zayn doesn’t get Liam tonight, we’re starting a prayer circle in my office next week,” Louis says.

 

“I’ll be there,” Niall says and he even sounds a tiny bit excited by this. Louis glances back at his face and he really _is_ excited about this.

 

“Maybe you should quit trying to advise people on the weather and just focus on matchmaking. You’re far better at it,” Louis suggests.

 

“I really am ace at it.” Niall sounds pretty damn pleased with himself. Louis almost wants to ask, but decides he’s probably better off not knowing the extent to which Niall has meddled.

 

“I don’t even want to know,” Louis grumbles. _Where is Harry?_

The music has started—naturally it’s the same ten annoying Christmas songs that Louis has been forced to listen to every time he’s been in any kind of shop for the last month—and someone has dimmed the overhead lights. With the festively festooned tree in the corner, and the ropes of twinkly lights hanging around the room, Louis can even begrudgingly admit that a tiny bit of Christmas cheer has managed to creep inside him despite his usual bitter and alone Grinch routine.

 

It’s all Harry’s fault.

 

Louis catches sight of Zayn and then realizes Liam is with him, and they’re tucked away quite privately in one of the dimmer corners. Liam’s got a hand on Zayn’s hip, and they definitely look cozy. Louis wants to sing a praise hallelujah.

 

“I think we’re not going to need that prayer circle after all,” Louis murmurs to Niall, nudging him in the direction of Zayn and Liam. Niall follows Louis’ gaze and cackles obnoxiously loud.

 

“Thank the fucking god,” Niall exclaims. “It’s about damn time. Now, go get me some cookies. I need to celebrate properly.”

 

Louis rolls his eyes. “Do I look like a waitress to you?”  


Niall gives him a quick up and down and _nods._

_Wanker_ , Louis thinks unrepentantly.

 

“Fine,” he finally grumbles and heads over to the refreshment table. He sees Eleanor in the vicinity and he supposes he should reveal to her that he’s the reason she got such an uninspiring range of Secret Santa gifts.

 

Surprisingly, Eleanor is actually really sweet about her gifts, exclaiming that the Starbucks gift card and cashmere glove and scarf set (while, admittedly not Burberry) was sweet.

 

Duty for the night over, Louis meanders near the refreshment table. There’s a rather boring selection of cookies laid out, and Louis debates over whether Niall will even be interested, before realizing that the cookies are still _food_. Of course Niall will be interested.

 

He grabs a napkin and begins to load up.

 

“Please tell me those aren’t all for you,” a voice smirks behind him.

 

Louis nearly drops the napkin when he turns and Harry’s standing behind him, resplendent in a dark suit jacket over a practically transparent white t-shirt. A Santa hat is jauntily perched on his curls, and Louis feels his mouth go dry.

 

“Uh, um, no. For Niall, actually,” Louis admits. He tries to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “You look nice. Very. . . _merry_.”

 

To anybody else this might be an insult, but Louis is beginning to understand a bit how Harry Styles ticks, and he smiles brightly at the compliment. “I love your scarf,” Harry says, and Louis can’t help but reach up and pet it at his words. He loves the way it makes him feel.

 

And then Harry pulls the rug right out from under him. “I knew it would match your eyes,” he says casually.

 

Louis actually drops the cookies. They fall to the floor and break into several unappetizing chunks and Louis finds he doesn’t even care. “What?” he squawks.

 

“Your eyes,” Harry says absently as he moves a bit closer to Louis. “I knew it would match your eyes.”

 

Louis feels like he’s fallen into an alternate universe. “Are you saying you picked out this scarf?” he asks slowly. Clearly. So there’s absolutely no confusion.

 

Harry grabs a cookie from the tray and gestures with it, shooting Louis a rather confused look. “You didn’t know I’d picked it out?” He freezes then, like he finally _gets_ what Louis is saying. “Wait a minute, you didn’t realize I was your Secret Santa?” He sounds incredulous. Disbelieving, even.

 

“I mean, it’s supposed to be _secret_ , Harry.”

 

Harry laughs a little self-consciously. “I thought I was really quite obvious.”

 

“Well, uh,” Louis stammers. He doesn’t quite know what to say. He should really be confessing that he _wanted_ it to be Harry, that he _hoped_ it was Harry, but he still can’t quite get his mouth to work right. Then Harry speaks up again.

 

“I actually have a confession,” Harry says softly, his eyes shining as he stares at Louis. “It’s going to be a little bit creepy.”

 

If Harry can forgive Louis for leaving him that night, then Louis can certainly forgive Harry for being a little creepy.

 

“You could never be creepy,” is what ends up coming out of Louis’ mouth, in a completely sappy tone of voice that leaves absolutely no question as to how gone Louis is. He’s got it bad.

 

“Maybe we should,” Harry says a bit tensely, gesturing at the party going on around them. Louis looks away from Harry for the first time since he appeared and realizes that while they’re not in the center of the room necessarily, they are _right next_ to the refreshment table. Maybe a bit of privacy wouldn’t be uncalled for.

 

“Let’s go,” Louis says decisively. Harry’s face softens into a smile.

 

“Okay.”

 

“No regrets about missing the Christmas party?” Louis asks with an arched eyebrow.

 

“None whatsoever,” Harry answers back with a bright, certain grin. “Let’s get out of here.”

 

\---

 

They’re in a cab, heading to Harry’s flat by some sort of unspoken agreement, Louis cuddled into Harry by yet another unspoken agreement, when Louis asks. “What’s your confession, darling?”

 

He thinks his own is going to be a lot worse. He can ask Harry to forgive him, and though it seems like he might, Louis is still afraid that it won’t be enough.

 

Harry glances out the window, as if he can’t even bear to face Louis. “I should have told you the night we met. It’s . . . _weird_ that I didn’t. I just, I really didn’t want to scare you away.”

 

“You’re worrying me a bit, love,” Louis says, and nuzzles his nose against Harry’s warm jacket-clad arm.

 

“I’ve been watching you on BBC for years,” he finally admits in a soft, ashamed voice. “I’ve had a crush on you forever. And when I saw you in the pub, even though I knew I might be working with you, I couldn’t help myself.”

 

 _This_ is Harry’s horrible confession? Louis is quite terribly surprised for the second time tonight.

“I’m flattered, but I fail to see how this makes you creepy.”

 

“Louis,” Harry says so seriously, “I _worshipped_ you.”

 

“Past tense,” Louis tries to joke but it falls a bit flat in the wake of Harry’s earnest concern. “Seriously love,” Louis continues, wrapping his arms even tighter around Harry. “It’s sweet. It’s flattering. I fail to see it as creepy.”

 

“I should have told you,” Harry whispers.

“And I shouldn’t have left you,” Louis counters before he can lose his nerve. “I didn’t want to. I liked you too much. I was stupid and afraid.”

 

“I was afraid too,” Harry admits with a devastatingly honest gaze. “Afraid you wouldn’t want to see me again if you knew.”

 

“But you knew you’d see me again,” Louis says slowly, finally beginning to understand why Harry might _not_ be mad about that night. “You knew you’d see me on Monday.”

 

“I did,” Harry confesses. “I thought Friday had gone so well, I could probably wear you down over time. I was a little worried when you said you wouldn’t date a co-worker but then Niall told me that was just rubbish and I should try anyway.”

 

“Niall,” Louis murmurs. He really does have more of a future as a matchmaker than a weatherman.

 

“I should also tell you,” Harry continues, as the cab finally pulls up in front of Harry’s building, “Niall’s also the reason I was lucky enough to get you for Secret Santa. He rigged it.”

 

Louis should be surprised but he’s really not. He also suspects that Zayn getting Liam is also Niall’s doing. Niall is like the black belt of matchmaking.

 

“Come up, please,” Harry begs after he shoves a few folded up bills at the cabbie. “For tea or coffee or. . . _whatever_ you want.”

 

Louis knows exactly what he wants. He leans in, letting the curls resting against Harry’s smooth, warm neck tickle his nose a bit. “I want to ride you wearing your Santa hat,” he admits with a rueful smile and a heated glance in Harry’s direction.  


Harry’s fingers tighten hard on Louis’ thigh. “That. . . _that_. . .” he stutters out. “ _Please_.”

 

It’s practically déjà vu as they stumble out of the cab, arms wrapped around each other, legs not entirely working properly. Louis feels the same exhilarating rush of lust as Harry’s fingers fumble with the keys and he _finally_ gets the door unlocked.

 

Louis practically falls over Harry and Harry almost falls over his own feet as they stagger inside, but Louis manages to right both of them, shoving Harry right up against the hallway wall. He kisses him like it’s been an eternity, not just two weeks, since they their lips last touched.

 

It’s _felt_ like an eternity. Louis doesn’t know he’s ever gone without kissing Harry. Kissing Harry is one of the best things in the world—it’s a gift even better than festive socks or cute cookbooks or Tina Fey mugs or Burberry scarves that exactly match his eyes.

 

“I’m crazy about you,” Louis mumbles into Harry’s mouth, words falling against Harry’s plush lips. “I’ve been so crazy without you.”

 

Harry just moans. “You wouldn’t say those things,” he pants a little, “if you knew what they do to me.”

 

Louis smirks unrepentantly as he leans in for another kiss, his hands slipping down Harry’s broad chest to his belt. “Now, love, that just isn’t true.”

 

“Bedroom. _Now_ ,” Harry straight up moans.

 

They barely make it to the bedroom, Louis is so determined to get Harry unclothed. When they do make it, Harry’s got one leg in his jeans, his blazer is sitting in a lumpy pile in the hall and he’s got a bit of a crazed expression of his own.

 

Louis makes quick work of his own shirt and when he’s down to his pants, lifts Harry’s Santa hat from his head with a knowing grin and sets it on his own.

 

“Nearly ready,” Louis announces.

 

Harry falls on the bed, completely naked and pulls Louis up on top of him, shifting their hips together until Louis can’t help but groan at how good it feels to be skin to skin with Harry again.

 

“Not quite, sweetheart,” Harry coos as he reaches into a drawer next to the bed, pulling out lube and a condom. Louis moans again and moves his hips more insistently.

 

He feels like he’s lost most of his words as Harry proceeds to finger him slowly and thoroughly, his long, knowing fingers teasingly brushing up against his prostate repeatedly. “Harry,” Louis finally begs, “wanna you to fuck me. _Please_.”

 

‘You gonna let me fuck you, Santa?” Harry asks all faux-seriousness. “Gonna get me on the naughty list?”

“Right there with me,” Louis admits with a shiver as Harry finally slowly withdraws his fingers. Louis grabs the condom and makes quick work of the packaging, rolling it carefully onto Harry’s dick. Louis is definitely gratified that Harry’s dick feels just as happy to see Louis as he is to see it. It’s hard and twitching in his palm, the tip wet with precome and Louis shudders a little as he slicks it up with lube and positions it against his hole.

 

He rocks back and forth once, then twice, teasing Harry with the way the tip catches against his rim, until they’re both breathless and desperate, and only then does he sink down a little.

 

“So hot,” Harry moans as he throws his head back and Louis wants to agree but he’s speechless and overwhelmed by the feeling of Harry’s dick in him as he slowly slides down. Harry’s just as big as he remembered, and it hurts a little, but the hurt’s mostly a good one.

 

Louis’ bum finally hits Harry’s thighs and he gives an experimental little twist of his hips. It’s even _better_ than he remembered. Pushing up on Harry’s chest, tweaking his nipples with his fingers, Louis sets a rhythm that has the tail of the Santa hat bonking him consistently in the face.

 

It’s a testament to how utterly perfect Harry’s cock feels that he doesn’t really notice and he doesn’t even care. He’s too focused on making Harry—and of course, _himself_ —feel good. And fuck, it feels _amazing_. Louis hopes it feels even half as good for Harry as it does for him.

 

It must because Harry’s gripping Louis’ hips so tight, he’s going to have fingermarks scattered over his skin tomorrow, and Louis decides that’s incredibly hot. That he’s always going to want to have Harry’s marks all over him.

 

Even the thought is overwhelmingly hot and right then Harry bucks up hard into Louis and hits his prostate dead on. Louis keens, one hand scrabbling over Harry’s chest to grab his leaking cock. He gets one thrust through his fingers before he’s shooting all over Harry’s abs, brain whiting out as he clenches hard around the cock in his arse.

 

“Louis,” Harry moans loudly, and from the death grip on his thighs, Louis knows Harry is close. So even though he’s sensitive and blissed out from his own orgasm, he thrusts down hard and apparently that’s all Harry needs.

 

Louis collapses rather ungracefully onto Harry’s wet chest. The Santa hat flops over his face and he gives as half-hearted groan. He doesn’t want to move. _Ever_. He might not even mind if they woke up like this, permanently stuck together from sweat and come and lube.

 

“So lovely,” Harry murmurs into Louis’ hair, as he strokes his back—long, sweet touches that make Louis feel just like he did when he received the scarf earlier today. He feels cherished and wanted and it’s the best thing in the world.

 

“Let me stay?” is all he can ask to properly express how he’s beginning to feel about Harry.

 

Harry must know, because Louis can feel him smile against his shoulder. “Always.”

 

\--

 

The next morning, they do wake up sticky and gross. And Louis doesn’t even care. It’s the best morning he’s ever had in his entire life.

 

“I’m sorry I was such a coward,” he murmurs into Harry’s warm skin.

 

“You’re forgiven,” Harry says lightly, as if there was never even a question.

 

That’s the moment Louis knows—this is the first day of the rest of his life.

 

\---

 

Louis doesn’t magically become less scared. He does learn to fight it, though, when it creeps up on him. He learns to talk to Harry when the fear threatens to overwhelm him. But it never even gets close to overwhelming how much Louis loves Harry.

 

Louis doesn’t learn to like coffee _or_ Starbucks. After all, some things will _never_ change.

 

Grimshaw starts dating a boy band member in June. Louis is graciously happy for him. Mostly he’s just happy Nick isn’t moping around the office anymore.

 

Harry and Louis become what’s affectionately known around the BBC as the Dream Team. They’re everybody’s favorite duo of broadcasters and their flirty, banter-filled segments earn crazy high ratings. Louis goes around telling everyone that he and Harry are the Power Couple of the Century.

 

Zayn glowers and disagrees. He and Liam are just as powerful, thank you very much. They just don’t get any opportunity to do broadcasts together. Then they’re sent to the Olympics in Rio and it becomes very much a neck-in-neck tie.

 

Louis only pouts a little bit.

 

And when, the very next Christmas, Harry drops to one knee at the annual Christmas party, Louis knows it’s finally happened.

 

He’s never going to be alone again. It’s official. He no longer has _any_ reason to hate Christmas. Harry Styles has made absolutely certain of that.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://bethaboolou.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> PS: all the presents that Louis receives for Secret Santa are in fact, real! [check them out here!](http://bethaboolou.tumblr.com/post/112854413420/i-put-a-spell-on-you-by-bethaboo-17-525-words-a/)
> 
> PPS: I totally stole a line from Gossip Girl. Major kudos to those of you who can actually pick it out :)


End file.
